


Lenny Bruce is Not Afraid

by Saone



Category: The Voice RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Crack, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:04:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saone/pseuds/Saone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Voice RPS/Zombieland AU. Who would have guessed that Adam's salvation would sound like he had just finished taping an episode of Hee Haw?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lenny Bruce is Not Afraid

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this with the intention of it being pure crack (I mean, _obviously_ , right), but somewhere along the way it became this mostly serious little thing. Don't ask me how. Timestamps are a distinct possibility, and hopefully they will be a bit more porny and a lot more snarktastic. Or a bit more snarktastic and a lot more porny. Whichever. 
> 
> Warnings: Not betad, grammarians beware. Mentions of death and general, zombie-related nastiness.

The check engine light comes on somewhere just east of Texarkana. At least Adam thinks he's just east of Texarkana, but the little Toyota he boosted outside of Tallahassee doesn't have a Garmin, and Adam's map skills have always been kinda weak.

His exact location doesn't mean a whole heck of a lot at the moment, though, not with that steady orange light on the dashboard glowing like some little icon of doom.

Western Arkansas stretches out in every direction, monotonously flat and depressingly barren of anything resembling a car dealership. It's all farmland with an occasional scraggly tree here and there.

Adam sometimes sees houses from the road, but he's been hesitant to turn down any driveways. Sure, he might find new supplies and maybe shelter for a night or two. Then again, he might also find a face full of buckshot. Adam hasn't seen another living soul in almost a week, but if there's one thing that would make people trigger-happy and territorial (or _more_ trigger-happy and territorial) it would probably be the end of the world.

Still, when his little car makes a few ominous sounds and then shuts down all together, Adam knows he doesn't have much of a choice. He steers the car to the side of the road, on the very slim chance that someone else might one day drive down this stretch of highway, and lets it coast to a stop. For a few minutes he just sits behind the wheel and takes deep breaths. He wants to freak out so bad, but, as always, Adam knows that if he starts he probably won't stop.

After he's done averting a meltdown, Adam gives the steering wheel a little pat, grabs the handgun in the passenger seat, and exits the car. He turns a full 360. There's no movement, and he tucks the gun in the back of his jeans. He grabs his duffle from the backseat, shoulders it, and starts walking towards a two-story, white farmhouse he sees sitting pretty maybe half a mile back from the road.

The feel of metal against the small of his back is still new enough to be unnerving, but he's training himself not to think about it. Just like he's training himself to not think about the times he's had to use it.

Of course it does help to remember that the people he's shot were already dead. Well, it helps his guilty conscious, but dwelling on the whole zombie thing still isn't great for his mental health.

The driveway cutting through the fields is nothing more than hard packed earth, and Adam's heavy boots kick up dust with each step. The sun's high in the sky, and by the time Adam's made it halfway to the house the back and underarms of his tee are soaked. Adam daydreams about what he might find inside. If the electricity's still on, he's pretty sure he's just going to stick his head in the fridge for a little while.

There's an ancient, red, Ford pickup parked by the front porch. Adam glances through the passenger window. There are no keys in the ignition, but if the gas tank is full enough he might have just found his new ride. First thing's first, though; there's a homestead to loot.

Adam eyes the front door, then decides to circle the house. He thinks that if anyone was inside, he or she would have made their presence known already - it's not like Adam was subtle in his approach - but there's something that's telling him to find another entrance.

Sure enough, halfway around the house there's a small stoop that leads to a back door, painted white to match the clapboard with what looks like blue gingham curtains hanging inside the window. There's a bloody handprint pressed on the outside of the glass.

"Fuck." Adam lets his duffle drop to the ground, and he reaches for his gun. Now that he's looking, his eyes pick up more signs that something bad went down here. In addition to the mess on the window there are other marks around the doorknob and there's heavy staining on the wood of the stoop. Adam doesn't see any remains, though. As he inches closer, he can tell the blood looks old and dry.

But just because the initial massacre happened days ago, it doesn't mean that whatever was responsible for it wasn't still lurking.

Adam takes a few deep breaths and weighs his options. He thinks of the dwindling supplies in his pack, and that's all it takes to propel him up the steps and to the door.

Adam grimaces as his hand touches the crusty doorknob. He expects it to hold fast, but, to his surprise, it turns easily. The door opens with creak, and Adam brings his weapon up as he steps inside. The door opened into the farmhouse's kitchen. It's cute and quaint in the way Adam imagines most kitchens in the rural Arkansas are. But beyond the country prints and novelty pot holders, there's something sinister in the air. Something feels _wrong_ and every instinct that Adam has - every instinct that's allowed him to survive thus far - tells him to get the hell out.

And if it wasn't for the wonderful, steady hum of the refrigerator, he'd probably be gone already.

Adam resists the urge to just go for the gold. It's too easy to imagine something sneaking up behind him while he's head deep in frosty goodness. No, he should sweep the house first. Like on C.S.I. and shit.

Imagining he's got a tac vest on and backup behind him gives Adam the confidence he needs to go through the swinging door beside the oven and into what looks like a hallway. Of course the giant of a guy at the other end of said hallway with a mean look on his face and a meaner looking rifle in his hands, abruptly reminds Adam that he's just wearing a sweaty tee shirt and he's all alone.

"Crap." Adam, realizing that since he wasn't shot on sight, decides to fall back on the oldest weapon at his disposal - his God-given talent to bullshit.

"Uh, hey, man. I'm just-"

"Shut up," the giant says. "Put your weapon on the floor. Slow like."

Adam almost mindlessly responds to the obvious authority in the man's voice. Almost. "How about _you_ put _your_ weapon on the floor. Quick like."

The man blinks in surprise, and for a split-second one of the corners of his mouth quirks upward. "Pardon?"

"I ain't putting this down, man," Adam says. "Shoot me, if you want, but I'm not going down like a stupd-ass punk who lets go of the one advantage he has."

"Uh huh," the man says in a slow drawl. "That thing even loaded?"

"Yes!" Maybe. Adam thinks he probably should have checked that before he got out of his poor, dead car. "Whatever. Hey, death by an inbred, hick, hillbilly would definitely be preferable to getting my ass eaten."

The man lowers his rifle just a tad. Adam doesn't know if having it point at his gut is better or worse than it pointing at his head.

"I'm confused. You _want_ me to shoot you?"

"No," Adam says. "Maybe. Or not. Are you?"

The man snorts and lowers his weapon completely. "Christ," he says, "I need a drink." He turns slightly, then looks over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows. "You comin'?"

Adam debates with himself for a couple seconds, then decides that yeah, a drink - or two, or three, or five - would be pretty damn awesome. He makes sure the safety's on and tucks his gun in the back of his pants again before following the man mountain into what looks like some kind of den. There's an impressive variety of guns in a cabinet built into the far wall and an even more impressive array of liquor bottles on the coffee table.

"This your place?" Adam asks. The decor mainly consists of things made up from parts of local wildlife. Adam thinks that he maybe should have kept his gun out.

"Nah, I've just been here long enough to scope out where the good stuff is." The man gives Adam a hard look. "But that truck out there _is_ mine, and I saw you getting _ideas_ about it."

"You saw me walk up to the house?"

"Kinda hard to miss, especially with that trail you were kicking up."

"You could have shot me," Adam says.

"Again with the shooting. You got some kind of death wish, man? 'Cause, I gotta say, in this day and age, it would be pretty damn easy to get it fulfilled."

Adam scoffs. "No, I don't... I guess I just figured that if I ever met another real, _live_ person, I should expect the worst. I'm Adam, by the way."

The man nods. "Blake. Expect the worst, huh?"

Adam shrugs. "In my experience, the end of the world hasn't exactly brought out the best in humanity."

Blake picks up one of the bottles from the coffee table and, without even checking the label, opens it and takes a swig. "That's mighty cynical of you," he says, easing himself down onto the sofa. He uses the bottle still in his hand to gesture to an easychair.

"Dude, the world has ended," Adam says. "Excuse me if my optimism left the building around the first time I saw the dead rise and start to devour the living."

"First," Blake says, "the world hasn't ended. The human race has been pretty much shitcanned, but the world seems to be spinning just fine. Second... Well, yeah, can't fault you for that." Blake narrows his eyes. "You gonna sit or what? I ain't used to looking up at people; I'm gonna get a crick in my neck."

Adam sighs, grabs a random bottle from the table, and plops himself down in the chair. He takes a swig and immediately wishes he had paid more attention when choosing his beverage. "Fuck me. Are you sure this shit is meant for human consumption?" he asks, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Blake says, sounding anything _but_ sorry, "I didn't realize you had the constitutional fortitude of an 8 year-old. Would you like me to make you a chocolate milk instead?"

"Dick," Adam says before taking another swallow. The liquid burns just as bad as before but, hey, it's not like he's going to live long enough to worry about the long term affects on his liver.

"Yep," Blake says, "I'm a dick. So what's your story?"

"Why do you want to know."

"I'm planning on stealing your identity and living it up in Mexico." Blake rolls his eyes. "You're the first person I've talked to in God knows how long, and, though I can be quite the ornery bastard, it turns out I've actually missed human companionship. Who'd a guessed?" Blake gestures towards Adam with his bottle. "I could still shoot you, you know. Indulge me."

"Fine," Adam says. "My story? Well, I'm not a dick."

"Is that right?"

"That's right. I am a joy to be around."

"Clearly."

"I'm a singer." Adam stops. Pauses. Rewinds. "I _was_ a singer. My friends and I had a band. We were on tour." Adam hopes like hell the guy doesn't ask about the others. "It was just five of us in this crappy van, pulling a trailer behind us, and playing clubs and county fairs and shit. "

The guy rakes his eyes over Adam's form. "I'm guessing country and western wasn't in your repertoire."

Adam's a little startled by the laugh that comes out of him. "Nah, man. Sorry."

"Not your fault you were raised by wolves, Rockstar."

Adam gives him the finger. Blake laughs. He's got dimples.

We were in Miami when it started," Adam says. "I was the only one who made it up to the panhandle." And that was all he was going to say about that. Ever.

Blake raises his bottle. "To the fallen," he says.

Adam nods. "I've been trying to get to L.A.," he says.

"L.A.?" Blake snorts. "That place was a burnt out hellhole before the dead started to rise. What the hell would you want to go there for? There ain't nothing left in that part of the country 'sides corpses."

Adam feels something burning in his chest, and he's pretty sure it's not the liquor this time. "It's home," he says simply.

"Oh." Blake blinks a few times. "Aw, man, I'm... I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay," Adam says. And it is. He's had time to make his peace with what he's most likely going to find there. "I gotta see for myself, you know? Besides, it's not like I have anyplace else to go." Adam shakes off the sudden chill that skates down his back. "How about you? You headed home too?"

Blake's face, which been so expressive just a moment ago, closes down. "I've already been home."

"Oh." Adam might not be the most sensitive person in the world, but he's perfectly capable of reading between the lines. "So, um, where are you headed now?"

"Not to L.A., that's for damn sure."

"No, man, I'm not..." Adam clears his throat. "I'm not looking for a road trip. I'm just wondering if I could hitch a ride into civilization, that's all."

"That's all, huh?"

"I'm not entirely sure where I am," Adam says, "but I am sure that if I try and to get to someplace else on foot, I won't make it. I know that. You probably know that. I just need a car that runs, and then I'll be outta your hair."

Blake studies the dark amber liquid in his bottle. After a few moments he says, "I can take you into Arizona, how about that?"

"Arizona?" Adam says. "That's... You don't have to... All I need is-"

"You refusing my hospitality?" Blake asks with the tiniest bit of bite to his voice.

"No, not... No."

"Good. Like I said, I'm an ornery bastard, but it's not healthy for a man to have no one to talk to but himself." Blake eyes Adam critically. "Even if the only option for companionship seems to have more tattoos than common sense."

"Hey!"

Blake rises to his feet. "Now, help me pack some of this stuff up."

"Uh... 'Kay." Adam shakes his head slightly. "Really, man, thanks," he says, putting as much sincerity as possible into that one word.

"Whatever," Blake says. "You'd just better hope your skinny ass don't snore."

Yes, this was obviously the beginning of a beautiful, post-apocalyptic, friendship. Or something.

_____________

end


End file.
